Twitch
by rvr idtq
Summary: I’ve just melted something in my tape deck and I’m thinking I might start a full blown electrical fire just to get out of class. But if I actually went I might learn enough to make this work. Class wins, but because I’m too beautiful for burn scars.
1. how the script goes

"That's it, man, a history ay Leith fae the merger tae the present. Start oaf in 1920, n maybe go back a bit, then forward again, like aw they fitba-player biographies.

Ken?

Like, Chapter One: 'I couldnae believe it when I lifted that European Cup intae the sky, man, That Alex Ferguson cat bounced right up and said tae me, "Hi, man, that likesay makes you immortal, ken?" Not that I could mind that much aboot the winning goal, or the match, as I'd been in a crack den right through the night until aboot half an hour tae go before the kick-off when I got the taxi tae the groond…' Ye ken how the script goes, man."

-Porno

Irvine Welsh

---

The real problem I'm having with the whole thing is this bastard asking me what _I'm_ doing. Fuckin' inconsiderate. Here I am, dying of asphyxiation, stabbing myself with my wand in an attempt to conjure an iron lung before I black out, and he asks _me_ like it's _my_ fault? Nice try, cunt. Just wait 'til my lungs reinflate. I'm already assessing the situation. He's a year under me, but I know he could take me in a proper duel. It's not like it would be my fault either. Most of us aren't lucky enough to get to practice on fuckin' Voldemort himself. Fists is the way to go. I probably weigh more just on the bone mass of being taller. Plus he's just waking up and I've already got epinephrine coming out my ears. But fuck, I should've eaten. It's getting all black and foggy on the sides of my vision. I can swing blind, I can do it. Come closer, bastard. I'll get up in a second.

"Are you alright?"

I try to say what I'm thinking but all I get out is "cunt."

"Can't what? Can't breath?"

I try for a "fuck off" but all that comes out is a wheezy sort of sigh.

"Look, I'll help you up, okay?"

My jungle cat reflexes kick in as he tries to grab my arm. "Back off," I manage as I scramble onto my feet. It's nothing personal to Potter. Anyone grabbing my arm is a problem. In my new upright state I can see his two sidekicks coming over the hill, per usual. "Your cavalry, general."

He turns and sees them too, and for half a second I consider laying about him then and there, but I'm already over it for the most part. Besides, the younger Mr. Weasley is a fuckin' hop, skip, and jump away, and he's (sadly) taller and better built than me.

"Harry, are you alright?" says Granger when the two get closer. I take a bit of offense seeing that the real injured party is totally ignored. She notices me though, a second after she sees Potter's fine and a good bit before Weasley. The girl starts lecturing Potter about disappearing, and she has a point considering his track record. Meanwhile, I can see Ginger here is trying to visualize a color-coded tie on me and is coming up blank. I can hear the gears grinding along: average height, thin; odd fuckin' hair, even to a redhead like him; at least a fifth year, maybe seventh but not sixth; definitely not Gryffindor. Probably starts running through the house clichés as well. But as I'm not outwardly dim, over-analytical or smarmy, there's no telling where I fit in. I smirk a man of mystery smirk.

"Who're you?" he asks, finally. I glance at the other two- still being domestic.

"Not dead yet." My priorities are well in order. Numero uno is being alive. Identity is down around twenty-seven.

"You're Ravenclaw, right? Fifth year?" says Granger.

"Hah. Don't we all wish. But seriously, I'd like to meet this dead ringer sometime. Could come in handy having a double." I can feel my sense of humor sighing inside cause this lot is obviously not interest in me being an artful dodger at 7 AM. I cough just to let them know it's out of my system for the time being. "Tolliver, Slytherin, seventh year." I stick my wand in the elastic of my running shorts and hold out my hand. "Pleased to finally meet you all."

The problem with me (or one of them anyway) is that I'm always completely sincere and completely joking at the same time. Worse is, when I try and explain this, they always think I'm just fuckin' with them more. So I don't bother going into this when all three look at me like I'm out of my box.

"Anyway, Potter, Granger's got it right. You're wasting your time whingeing about, lurking in the tall grass for the unsuspecting jogger to trip. Take up something more athletic at least." I can't resist the opportunity for irony, so I have to trot off then and there, wheezing as I go and wondering if I've been secretly asthmatic all these years.

---

Tragically, Malfoy's about when I get back to the dungeons.

"What the hell happened to you?" he says with his typical posh drawl.

"Chariots of Fire, man"

"Chariots of fire?"

I do one of his own femmy 'tsk' and eye roll combos, like he's being totally daft for not catching my subtle, cinematic allusion, which I'm betting he imagines to be a sort of living Catherine wheel that lurks on the edge of the forest. Good to let him wonder a bit.

"I know what it _is_," he says.

"I bet you do." I regret this instantly because I'm not in the mood for a who-can-be-the-snarkiest contest. Which means I'll have to piss off for the next couple of hours as it's Sunday (I always start things on Sundays, spats included) and he'll lurk around the common room till lunch. Only not. 'Cause here I am, lying in the nest that Potter made in the overgrown grass, imagining anything better than going back to what's waiting in the castle. Which is nothing.

---

At the very least I have to go up to the dorm room or something to not look like a complete arse. So I get up there and decide to swing around to the infirmary to see if I can get something off of Madam Pomfrey to help with the fact that I'm breathing like a chain smoker. But I look in the mirror and see that I look more like a junkie than an Olympian and figure she'd take it the wrong way. They all do, I expect.

Which brings me back to where I was last night, because now I'm wondering if a raging addiction to heroin would be less stress on my system than this track star plot. Part of this came out of this Voldemort business and everyone being a real drag all the time. The other part is my sudden recent fascination with my mortality.

See, I've only had a few weeks to contemplate my existence before the start of term, being the product of a mid-November snow storm that was conveniently made even apparition a danger. But it was nice having the real dog days of summer, the discovery of a crate of post-Grindlewald philosophy paperbacks, the release of "The Bends," and my coming of age all over with in one week.

I got tired of the mold after the fourth day, but I'm perfectly fine with having a four-day education in the deepest thinking to come out of the wake of Gindlewald. D'eauclair would say it was like the story of Goldilocks and the three bears. Känzer was too organized. It was like lying on a wood floor for hours on end. Pontouff was too soft. Even in translation you melt into his Brie cheese profundity. D'eauclair was just right, but only because he wasn't like them at all. Pontouff and Känzer, they would have been disjointed and ridiculous even if a madman hadn't blown up their villages. But D'eauclair, he's the survivor, the secret storyteller hiding amid all the tragic whiners. The Radiohead was decent too.

I contemplate, for a moment, trying to work out how to run my copy of "The Bends" on magic, with electronics being a waste. But I don't want to fuck it up from not knowing what I'm doing, which means I'd need to make a copy, which means I'd actually have to use something I've learned in class.

I stretch out on the floor and try to count my ribs. But I don't remember how many I'm supposed to have, so I just assume, having an even number, that everything is fine. The same way you can assume you're not dead by matter of waking up.

I can't sleep like this, so I think. I need a romance to make things epic. Something tragic, worth reading. If I try real hard, even Granger might become appealing, but orientation aside, I'd choose The Younger Mr. Weasley long before her.

---

So, me and Ginger, we have a romance forbidden on so many levels amid the ramparts. After a climactic consummation, Weasley throws himself before the death curse thrown at me by those I have betrayed and dies in a beautiful arc of sacrifice. And then I become the man with nothing to lose, sort of Mad Max, right? Real cinematic.

---

I wonder, why the fuck does everything have to be fated? How the hell can a ratty felt sack decide, at eleven years old, exactly what we will be for the rest of our lives? What if I don't want to be in any house, what then? I smile. What then is lying on a moldy rug in running shorts wasting away your youthful, hedonistic potential. Which brings us back to the matter of romance, or lust disguised therein.

---

It's all fucked anyway, but I can't complain. I _am_ the cat who came back.

---

a/n: Jeebus, things have changed. is all shiny and weird now. Just signing in here again has activated my fic related guilt complex, so there might be some updates for old things on the way. But don't hold your breath. If you have any questions, please review/e-mail/IM me (reveuridioteque) me. This fic is supposed to be weird though, so it's not just you.


	2. Why? Why not?

2 – 'Why?' Why not?

For about a day, after I decide to come back to school and before I actually say so, I decide I'll write the story of my life, preserve my sob story for posterity and all. Probably 'cause I had seen some girl dragging around that Anne Frank diary the Saturday before.

Flash forward to now, me on the stone floor of the loneliest room in the world, rolling in cobwebs trying to reach the wad of parchment under the bed that I know is that selfsame waste of ink.

I used to have two very boring parents. Then one day they decided to have a family party, with finger sandwiches and everything. Everyone was in the living room but the dog and me because someone had just put me out in the yard as well, because at age one I was about on par with the dog, but less vocal. Then they all died. Someone had the wrong address and blew up the wrong wizard family. Except me and the dog and the only two relatives who weren't invited, some kind of great aunt and uncle, who weren't invited because everyone thought they were dead.

Really they're just very old and quiet, which is almost the same thing. So I went to live with them and the dog. When the dog died too, when I was almost fifteen, I had to find someone else to talk to. So I went out into town, and became that mysterious youth in the white t-shirt.

First I learn that wizard music is shite. Most muggle music is shite too, but there is enough good stuff to entertain the average teenager with a dispensable income.

I go to school all along this interval, but it isn't very interesting until it occurs to me that illegal apparition would save me bus fare. I spend the better part of fifth year making little packaged apparitions that go off in a puff of smoke when snapped. Preprogrammed for various dark alleys throughout the country, mostly those behind music venues. I also become a master of getting under 18's into 18 and over clubs, by way of correspondence with a few questionable muggle friends and careful research. Needless to say, I barely pass my OWLs.

The next summer, though, is worth it. Total anonymity and easy access to the best the underground music scenes of the UK had to offer. I was a god among 16-year-old wannabe hipsters. And then Voldemort has to go fuck things up for everyone.

I hate the wizarding world. One terrific confederacy of dunces, as far as I'm concerned. The great aunt and uncle are okay, for taking care of me and all, but the rest can keep to themselves as far as I'm concerned. The only reason to come to school was to learn how to do enough to satisfy my curiousity. And now it's all gone mad.

Now I've gotten myself into a royal tetchy fever, and I dump out all my clothes around me. Anything with Slytherin colors is first to go into the fireplace, even though a fire won't be lit for another month at least. Next is anything I would get the shit kicked out of me for wearing to a club, excluding 80's nights. All that's left is the muggle crap I go around in when not institutionalized, and at this very moment, that is perfect. I set the whole mass ablaze, and lie back down so I can melt through the cracks in the stone floor between the weather still thinking it's summer and the roaring bonfire I have going here.

---

So there's this guy beating himself on the head with a mallet, all methodical too. And some real wise cunt goes up to him and says, "What the hell are you doing that for?" And the guy, without missing a beat (literally), says, "'Cause it feels so good when I stop."

---

I get up and go down to bask in the coolness of the common room now. My running togs are the new Slytherin uniform. Huzzah.

---

I have this whole vision of how it's going to go down at breakfast. I think McGonagall will jump on my arse first. 'That is _not_ appropriate dress, _Mister Tolliver_.' She'll even say it with that not at all abbreviated tone. From there I can't decide who will be the next to join in on the ripping of the new one.

I'm in the common room and this second year is there who I guess has been here since last night. I skipped the feast though, and he looks like he just crawled out from under a rock anyway.

"You're?"

"Jimmy," he mumbles.

"Right, Jimmy."

"And you're Tolliver."

"Felix," I say. He's a wee one and all. The informality'll do him good. "We're outnumbered then."

"Yeah," he shrugs.

"Not that I mind."

"Yeah."

"Bastards."

"Yeah."

"Can you be loners _en masse_?" I'm not really asking him, but I can see he thinks I am and feels like an idiot for not knowing what I'm talking about. "I mean, if you want to come along and find some food with me, that's fine. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. Skipped the feast and all."

"Me too," he sighs and pulls on shoes below the cuffs of his pinstriped pajama bottoms.

---

I have found my soul mate.

Even though he had to turn back and put on real clothes because he couldn't personally handle the burden of challenging authority with one's outward appearance, I still have a fair amount of respect for this kid. No clue why he came back, but he's willingly going out for the beating that awaits us.

But fuck, I'm a coward, and when I hear the rumble in the hall, I veer off so fast the wee one thinks I've evaporated for a second. Now is a good a time as any to teach my protégé where the kitchen is. I'm not hungry anyway and neither is he. I ask for toast, but they bring it back buttered, which I can't stand. This Jimmy eats it though. Good for him.

I start thinking whether I really want to go to class. I don't, that's easy enough. Especially with my shite morning schedule. I don't think I can handle McGonagall at this hour. Or any time, place, context. I'll just spend an hour plus feeling like I should be wearing a cup. I might as well. I don't think I'll be changing for class.

---

a/n: If you want to know what the hell is going on, so do I. I didn't really think this out thoroughly before I started typing. Regarding chapter 1, I'm pretty sure "The Bends" came out in '96, but I'm not exactly in the mood to be going over this with a fine-toothed comb. On this subject however, most grammatical weirdness, especially verb tense and syntax, is on purpose, but please feel free to correct me if you want. You can even make yourself my personal beta reader. Whatever. It's past my bedtime.


	3. What do you take me for?

3 – What do you take me for?

Electricity smells like death. I've just melted something in my tape deck and I'm thinking I might start a full blown electrical fire just to get out of class. But if I actually went to class I might learn enough to make this work. Class wins, but because I'm too beautiful for burn scars. Hah.

I think I'd go insane if I were an electrician. But I won't be, so I'll have to find another way to lose touch with reality. Double hah.

---

So I can hear her talking, but I'm not exactly _listening_. Vocabulary for accuracy. What I'm listening to is the whale song in "(Nice Dream)." I can't even imagine how you'd begin to mix something like that. I mean, this kid I know, Jimmy, not the second year, but this muggle kid, he buys up all sorts of old mixing crap, and he let me have a go with it once, but you have to be a technical master to make anything intentional sounding. And then to go from intentional sounding to so intentional that it sounds off-hand, that's genius. You have to have the right kind of brain I think.

So, if I'm only half listening, I figure she's only half chastising, because at the very least I must have something wrong to be showing up to class like I've just stepped out of a Stuart Murdoch daydream. And how does it occur to any of them to play the perfect wrong note in "Stars of Track and Field?" Beyond us mere mortals. Seriously, he takes a shite voice and a wispy view of the world and makes something brilliant out of it. A Glasgow trip is definitely in order as soon as June or the Apocalypse rolls around.

I don't think I want to hear her. She doesn't want to be talking either. Or covering this subject matter, meaning the way the glare cast from my pale, thin legs onto the chalkboard is disrupting her lesson. But it is all a little ridiculous. I mean, how old do you have to be to be able to wake up in the morning and wear the clothes you feel like wearing?

I realize- I have to some how get this situation under control so that she'll either take punishment into her own hands or bypass Snape completely and go to Dumbledore. Snape tolerates me, and not very well. Which is saying something 'cause I imagine he was awful at my age.

I feel self-destructive. I laugh, but I'm sure to control myself enough to keep me out of hospital. If I could see myself, I think I'd look wonderfully manic. The strawberry blond hair is definitely a setback, but the glint in my eyes might be enough to pull it off.

Can you really be mad if you're absolutely conscious of yourself? I mean, don't you have to be delusional for it to count as being mental?

Anyway, I'm three songs into the Glider EP and I'm at Dumbledore's office. Which is shite 'cause "Off Your Face" is my favorite and now I have to actually pay attention.

"_Mister Tolliver_," he starts. Really I prefer just Felix or Tolliver or even shite-for-brains like the Aidan who's always hanging around the Blue Rose Club does 'cause the 'mister' part makes me sound married, which is too much commitment to even consider. Even to consider. Split infinitive.

Anyway, I feel like I should say something now because I've had time to correct my mental grammar and he hasn't said anything more, and I hate small talk, but I hate pregnant pauses more. But I know if I talk I'll say something that'll dig me in deeper. I'm not sure exactly how masochistic I'm feeling at the moment.

"I do believe the supply list you received last month included the customary supply of school clothing." Thank God, he steps in.

"Yes, sir."

"But you're not wearing this?"

"It all burned, sir, just before I came."

"Burned?"

"Yes, sir." I decide to go the honesty route. "See, I was feeling very post-Grindlewaldian, and I found the fate implied in the house assignments to be very constricting. And I had just been for a run."

He sighs. "Kânzer or Pontouff?"

"D'eauclaire, sir."

"I should have guessed."

"I like his one about the town plagued by the werewolf. Or not really. You can't really like something like that."

He sighs again, which is a good sign, because I imagine people rarely sigh just before they kill you. "Lemon drop?"

"Nah, I'm a bit of an ascetic lately."

"I never could manage that myself. Dreadfully addicting things, these muggle sweets."

For half a second I consider asking him how I might go about running my music collection inside the castle bounds, but I think better of it. Focus.

"Now, I fully agree with you that your current dress is far more freeing in many ways. Personally, I feel that to be comfortable in the body is necessary for the mind to be most receptive to learning. But there are others who feel that the uniform tradition is a good one, and they have their valid reasons." He smirks. "Besides, such scant clothing must be a distraction for many of your classmates."

I try and blush, but I only really manage a twisted up grimace. "So-?"

"So I will have the house elves send up proper clothing to your dormitory. And as punishment for your misconduct, I absolutely forbid you from returning to your lesson." He winks, just to make sure I don't take it wrong. "For the remainder of the period, I suggest you return to your room and think about what you have done while you wait for a change of clothes."

I'm at the door practically when he starts off again.

"I nearly forgot. You weren't at the feast last night, so you missed my start-term-speech. Well, the brief and less eloquent version is this: we need to stick together, now more than ever. And don't be afraid to offer your services."

I give the man a cookie in my mind, excluding the bit there about conscription, and scamper off. If I can focus long enough to make copies of "The Bends," I'll stick one in his mail or something.

--

I get back to a fat envelope of forwarded mail on my desk and a small pile of clothes on my bed. Within the large envelope, there is a brief letter from the great aunt and uncle, plus a smaller, lumpy thing from Evie, and another from Weedgie Aidan. The great aunt and uncle are well and thank me for inquiring about the garden. Weedgie Aidan continues the irony of our acquaintance (him being introduced by the Blue Rose Aidan as 'some fuckin' bastard up from Glasgow whae knows yer Jimmy, so fuck off, cunt') by being quiet and well spoken, even on paper, and very thorough in his account of the Glasgow scene in my absence. He mentions Evie, which is significant 'cause Glasgow's no easy trip for her, so she must be on to something good.

The something good is what's in her envelope, which is something she bootlegged recently and made a second cassette of for my listening pleasure. Which means I'm fucked because the thing won't play here and the title is even incompatible, being in French or something.

I know about as much as the average muggle about how this stuff works, which isn't much more than don't pull out the tape or touch it with a magnet unless you want to ruin it. But that means it has to do with magnetism, which goes under science, which means I'm still fucked. And I know I'm too lazy to try and resolve this in any way.

But I smile. I know someone who isn't.

-------

a/n: I made up the Blue Rose Club, Radiohead made up (Nice Dream), and Belle and Sebastian made up "Stars of Track and Field." Evie is a tribute to Evie2. This story is dedicated to Dancho, especially because she's probably the only person reading it, and probably only to humor me. She should not be held responsible for the weirdness going on here though. If you hadn't guessed yet, I own nothing. The mysterious bootleg is a real live song, which I am in the process of hunting down, much as our Felix is.

Q: Why the delay on this chapter?

A: There may actually be a plot soon.

Q: I'm having some formatting issues. This narrator, he keeps going off into hypothetical dream-sequence type things. Should I just do what I've been doing and offset them with the three dash break or should they be italicized or what?

A: You tell me.


	4. mais il me faut, tres chere

4 – "_mais il me faut, tres chere"_

---

Obsessive compulsives have a fierce energy once they get going. Sadly, it's a little like using a monsoon to wash your sidewalk. Very effective, but your azaleas often get drowned in the process. And you never have very much control beyond the rain dance that starts it all. Still, I'm bored.

The transfiguration class I've been excused from was a double period, so I still have a good 45 minutes to think about exactly how I'll get Granger wound up into a do-or-die over my walkman. But now I'm wound up enough to be completely unproductive, so I figure I'll wander over to Gryffindor tower to leave a message for her with whoever up there is skipping as well. Or the portrait.

Now that I think of it, I know enough to be a very effective force in this school. The upside of being a spectator with above average hearing. If only I had some ambition. Hah.

Anyway.

You know how it is. You just spin over the same thing in your head over and over again. Or you get into the fantasy line of thinking the same thing but as though you were describing it to some reporter rapt on your every word because you are you, the fantastic, the one and only, who had such a fantastic idea that all the world has taken notice.

And now I'm there. This Longbottom kid has stretched a bit over the summer. 5'9'' maybe? If Ginger doesn't pan out, I might have to pursue this one. I swear, being in the same school with the same handful of kids for seven years does nothing for your love life, as exemplified when you start exploring second-rate possibilities of your second choice gender.

I have to kick him. Just a little. Anyway, he's same year as Granger, and maybe he'll help with the holy grail of Evie's bootleg.

"Wha?"

"Sorry. Is Granger around?"

"Hermione? She should be in Arithmancy now."

"Oh. Well, can I leave a message?"

"I guess." He stands up and tries to comb his cowlick with his fingers. Unsuccessfully.

"Tell her that her presence is requested at a very top secret and absolutely vital meeting tonight at, say, 2 am, just to make things a little crazy, up in the Astronomy Tower. There shouldn't be a class there then."

"Right."

"The password is _in omnia paraxsis_, by the way."

"Right."

And I'm off.

---

Do I even need to discuss the rest of the day? It's not as though I think about it at all. I'm trying to decide exactly which approach to take with this meeting. Being that it's the Astronomy Tower and all, I could return to plan A and use my charm to make her my slave before handing over the Walkman. But if Potter and Ginger follow, which I'm sure they will, that could be a bit embarrassing. So I could make it urgent and earth shattering. My Walkman must be made to run in order to stop Voldemort's latest evil plan. I could offer to pay her, but I doubt she'd go for that.

So, flash forward, it's 1:45 and I'm patting little Jimmy on the head like he's a dog and I'm going off to work, which is true in a way. He can't sleep, see, and somehow I've assumed maternal duties without intending to. But duty calls, so I put him in the kennel and head out into the hall.

The Astronomy Tower is a good 20 minutes away, which is perfect as I am a firm believer in never being exactly on time.

And there is Longbottom. Asleep again. So I kick him again.

"Oh, hullo."

"So…?"

"I was going to tell her, but I couldn't find her. I think she and Harry and Ron are onto something again."

"Bastards."

"Yeah. I mean, I like them and all, but they aren't the only people in the world. I helped last time, but already they've dumped me again."

"Poor Nev." I slide down onto the floor beside him. "Fancy a trip to Glasgow?"

---

I think it would be almost an insult to Dumbledore's intelligence to try and pull a fast one. Really he deserves better. If I'm going to abruptly and blatantly break a thousand rules, I should at least give him a heads up. Which is why I threw a fanged Frisbee so it would just come close enough to slice off a few of Filch's split ends.

"Hallo, sir. How are you today?"

"Fine, Mister Tolliver, as fine as can be expected."

"Filch sent me to be condemned, sir."

"Yes, I know. I also can tell you are not the least bit concerned."

"Oh, I am very concerned, sir. But about matters far more pressing."

He sighs. "You could always just knock."

"You know that this way is faster. Anyway, I'm just here to give you a heads up. Neville Longbottom and I are planning a trip."

"Oh?" He raises one eyebrow, the left one to be precise.

"Yes. It seems that one of my dearest friends is in grave danger." (This is, in a way, true. Weedgie Aidan seemed to say, in his latest letter, that he thinks Blue Rose Aidan has it in for him, which makes sense as Blue Rose Aidan hates most people with a passion.) "I think it might have something to do with Voldemort." (This is probably not true, but Dumbledore is slightly surprised that I say Voldemort and not he-who-is-far-too-dreadful-to-even-mention.) "We plan on leaving early Friday evening so as to miss as little class time as possible. Ideally we should be able to resolve this all in an evening, but we are prepared to be detained for up to a week."

"I see."

"I thought you ought to know. I mean, I know how Potter and Co. just tend to disappear for odd intervals. We all know he's the boy who lived, but really, it's just inconsiderate."

"And how were you planning on leaving school grounds?" I think I see him smiling slightly.

"Well, we thought we'd break into the shed and take the two least twitchy of the school brooms."

He sighs yet again, and I wonder if it's me or if he does that with everyone. "Just have James Winthrop collect your assignments then."

"Oh, I already talked to Jimmy about it."

"And you are taking your wands?"

"Yes, sir."

"Be careful. I don't need to tell you that these are dark times, so I won't. You, at least, are of age, and there is little I can do in the way of controlling you, especially with things as chaotic as they are. But if any ill befalls Neville, you put your life into the hands of his grandmother."

"Yes, sir."

"Enjoy Glasgow then."

Yes, I know I didn't tell him.

---

Well, that was easy.

---

a/n: The title for this chapter comes from "Des Veaux Ca Taille Nous Une" by the Karelia as best as I can understand it (sorry, I don't start French for Oral Proficiency until September), and it should mean something like "but I must, my dear." If you didn't guess already, I watched a rerun of "Gilmore Girls" shortly before writing this.


	5. slouching off to bedlam

5 - slouching off toward bedlam

"Put it fucking on." I'm getting tired of this kid.

"I'll look ridiculous."

"What? You mean as opposed to looking like someone's Edwardian dress-up doll?"

"What?"

I stop, drop, and roll for a sec. Breath in, breath out. Everything zen and all. I can't blame the kid. Okay.

"Look. Just try them on. They're already paid for. If you hate them, we'll just return them."

There's a rustle of plastic. He's at least looking at them.

"You bought me underwear?" He even sounds like he's blushing, fir chrissake.

"Just being safe. You never know. You could be in a car accident. Or meet a girl." He stops looking through the bags. "C'mon. Just pass me your old stuff over the stall door so it doesn't get dirty on the floor." I cross my fingers, hoping his Gran is as anal as I imagine. She is. "Don't give me your old underwear though. Just put that in one of the bags or something."

I hear the zip of a fly. "I look like an idiot."

"Just put it on. Then see how you feel." I turn the bolt on the main door as quietly as a bolt can turn. "What about the shirt?"

He grunts a bit as it goes over his head. "You got the wrong size, I think."

"No. It's meant to be that way." I'm almost sure I remember how to conjure smokeless fire. All the same, I pick the sink closest to the vent to do the deed.

"This is ridiculous. Give me back my clothes."

This kid. Honestly. Like a fucking two-year-old. "Just lemme have a look first."

He comes out of the stall like he's just been violated. He looks a bit like it too. Which is a good thing, compared to the shite-brown sweater he had on previously. "What's that in the sink?" I can't tell if he knows yet. He seems to always have that same horrified look.

"Yer clothes, ye idiot. We're getting out of here." I look him up and down. "Where's your wand?"

"Back pocket?"

"Either put it someplace I can't see it, or get rid of it."

"What?"

"As far as I'm concerned, you're a bloody muggle now, Longbottom."

---

Here's the thing. I actually like Evie. Honestly. She's no Gwen, but she's decent enough. And she can hold a conversation. About stuff I'm interested in, even. But I'm not stupid. I know I'm a cunt, and Evie, darling that she is, knows she's too good for a cunt of a boyfriend. So I figure, I'd rather be a decent friend than a shitty ex.

There's the whole magic thing as well.

---

I have been a bit rough on the lad, I reflect. Still, it's not like anything I could do could make him cower more. Evie said something once about an American writer, Poe, and him having this bit about a "spirit of the perverse" or whatever. She said it was supposed to be like that fraction of a second when you know exactly what the right thing is but you have that flash where you really do consider just kicking up the whole anthill for no reason at all. I think I have one coming on strong.

"We need to go do something."

"I thought we were."

"No, I mean, we need to go do something else first. Those clothes make you look like you just stepped out of a fucking Gap advert. You need to rough 'em up a bit."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Get a dog to chase you or something. Just a couple blocks should do."

"What?"

"I dunno. You come up with something." I can see he's on the edge. One more tap and he'll be falling forty feet to nowhere. "Have a fucking Potter adventure for all I care. I'm just not running about with you like that." I take a gratuitous sip of my Earl Grey (no cream, no sugar, twist of lemon) and wait for him to snap. One-thousand one. One-thousand two. One-thousand thr-

"F-fuck you!" I am impressed. "What's your problem? Why did you even bring me along? All you do is say how much you hate everything! You drag me from school, you burn my clothes, and then you want me to go chase a dog?"

While he catches his breath I think to remind him that I suggested he be chased by a dog, not chase a dog himself. I don't feel like accessorizing with a black eye though. Gryffindors tend toward steely moral convictions and random violent outbursts.

"I'm sorry. You know how it is." I feel the need to throw in a term of endearment, but I don't want to push it much more. "I'm just really in need of a gig right now." I pause. Should I seal the deal with a cinematic followup? 'I'm just really in need of a friend,' maybe? No. He's already backing down.

"I've never been to a gig before."

No, really. I'd never have guessed.

---

Should I go for something more than just 'Nev?' Usually these things just come to me. But then, usually my slick pop culture references are only slightly over the bearer's head. It'll come. Hopefully before I have to introduce him anywhere.

---

The tea's gone cool.

---

I'm not telling him anything. He can ask all he wants. He is. I let it fall through my ears like a Billy ze Kick record. He's probably saying something stupid, yeah, but as long as I put a reggae beat underneath and try not to understand, it's all good. Relaxing almost.

I feel like seeing the dog, so I do up a quick portkey on my ticket stub. I hate apparating onto moving objects. Off is fine though.

I'm guessing Nev here is asking me what the hell I'm doing, mais ça ne me dit rien. Now a little bit of guitar. Some light percussion. Done.

I land in the back garden and remember the dog is dead. How the fuck do you forget the dog is dead, I don't know. I look at the rock though over top. I'll go inside for a cup anyway.

No one's home. I don't know where they go. Where do you go when you're that old? I charm the kettle hot and get out a tea bag. Irish breakfast will have to do, whatever the hell that is.

First swig tastes like ten years of dust. Longbottom's probably pissing himself anyway.

I go in my pocket for the ticket stub.

--

a/n: This chapter is for IamTREE, who asked for more. Hopefully this wasn't too much of a let down.


	6. loser

6 - loser

I'm on a beach. Not an English beach, but a beautiful, sprawling American one with golden sand and California girls in next to nothing. And I don't even care about that 'cause it's too much to just lay there on the sand with the sun glowing through the backs of my eyelids. There's a gentle breeze that mixes well with the smell of salt and the sunlight roasting away every last worry. Someone three towels over has a boom box tuned to some laid-back reggae station (nothing over 100 bpm). And then Weedgie Aidan's friend's roommate wakes up and blasts some hair metal because that's what people do at 6 am in Glasgow apparently.

Stop. Rewind.

We get off the train and I call Weedgie Aidan because Nev doesn't feel like carrying his rucksack anymore and refuses to use the station toilet. He says he doesn't have any room for us, but says he'll call a friend at uni whose roommate is away for the weekend. We wander around for a bit until we find a cafe with a toilet that's clean enough for Nev to feel comfortable with doing a number two.

We meet this friend, Nick, at U of Glasgow. The room only has the one spare bed, but I decide to worry about that later. Neville hides his rucksack under said bed when Nick isn't looking. Nick is likable enough, especially since he has a car. The three of us go to dinner where Nick talks a lot about his girlfriend and even more about football. Neville is lost, knowing nothing about either topic, but picks up quickly on my strategy of nodding and asking ambiguous questions. Nick is easily played and seems to like us as well.

To avoid an awkward scene, I tell him we have to go visit family after dinner. Once he's gone, I ring up Dave, who has cable and a Playstation, and we head to his flat. We play watch American reruns and play Tekken for a few hours. Dave is invited to the club but declines, saying his girlfriend hates when he comes home smelling like a show. I tell him where she can shove it, but he shrugs the way he always does when he's stuck on some stupid girlfriend.

We head back and link up with Aidan as well as Nick and another friend, Marie. I like her instantly, and so does Neville, only more so. He ends up sandwiched between her and me in the back of Nick's car and doesn't know what to do with himself.

In line for the club, I slip Nev some muggle money so he won't look like an ass at the door. He does anyway though because he has to carefully examine each bill before he can sort out how to pay. I tell the girl at the box office that he's foreign.

Marie decides to go to the bar and asks if anyone wants anything. Nev opens his mouth, but I kick him before he can ask for a butterbeer. To my surprise, he pulls me aside to ask me what I'm doing. I explain the butterbeer faux pas, and he's indignant that I would think he'd be so dim. At this point, Nick seems to decide that Nev and I are a couple.

After the bands play, it's only 11, so we go a few blocks over to another club where Marie says there's a decent DJ. Neville has the time of his life.

Around 1, I'm jonesing for some coffee, and since everyone else is falling over, we pile into the car and drive around looking for a place to sit and get some food. Nothing decent seems to be open, so we give up.

Marie is the first to be dropped off, and I see her kiss Neville goodnight in the reflection on my window. Nev is so surprised he doesn't slide over to the now open window seat until I kick him again. Aidan is next, and then we head for Nick's dormitory. I remember suddenly that there's only one free bed, but figure Neville is too moonstruck to mind sleeping on the floor.

We stumble into the room to find Nick's roommate asleep in his bed. Nick gives us some sweaters to sleep on and we both stretch out on the floor, which is covered in a mysteriously stained carpet. I can't sleep, so I apparate home to take a shower and change. I come back, lay down, and sleep blissfully until Nick's roommate starts the day with Van Halen's "Jump."

---

"Wha's wrong w' you?"

He just stands there. I mean, really. So I get up.

"Eggs then?"

"Fine." Nev is glaring, and I know I should be contrite, but I just feel like patting him on the head.

Luckily there are eggs in the kitchen or I might have felt like an ass. I don't ask him what he wants because I really only feel capable of scrambled and he'll just have to accept it.

"So."

"Where are we?" There it is. Good boy.

"Home, more or less. For me at least. Not so much you." I crack another egg into the pan. In retrospect I probably should have beat it first, but I can't be bothered. I just mix it up with the turner.

"And- and how did we get here?"

I'm so close to spinning around and doing a hand on hip, turner in the other telling off. I don't know why. I don't 'cause I don't want to start the eggs over. "Can you get a couple plates from the cupboard there?"

He does. He knows the routine already. Through the backdoor and all.

We're eating. I feel it coming through the smell of my eggy toast.

"Are you mad or something?"

"Mad how?"

"What?"

"Mad like angry or mad like out of my head?"

He has to think for a sec. "The first, I guess."

"Not really. I mean, occasionally. But not at the moment." I'm surprised for a bit by the eggs. They really aren't too bad.

He shifts a bit in his chair. "The second then?"

"Probably. I like the Tears for Fears too. Do you want tea? Or there might be some coffee somewhere."

He shakes his head.

"There might also be juice or milk or something. You can have a look if you like."

"I'm fine really." He could have fooled me.

Honestly. How can you be that sulky over eggs and toast when you're skipping out on school? I'm done with it. My breakfast and the sulking. "If you want to ask something awkward, you might as well, because if you don't I'll be forced to go find that cassette of 'The Hurting.'"

"I dunno. I'm just a little confused."

"Fine. Short version: bastard wakes me up at crack of dawn with devil music, I snap us to the family estate and put you to bed, four hours later you wake me up to make breakfast, we sit at table where you squirm instead of eating."

"You 'snapped' us?"

"How the hell else am I supposed to get around? The ministry has tabs on apparation and floo. I dug around in the library a while back until I found an old charm no one uses anymore. Thus, we are good to go. That's just what I call it anyway 'cause the real name sounds like a sneeze."

He seems to think I want to kill him. Really I could just do with a cup of tea.

"You can go back to school if you want."

"I don't want to." He's summoning up something. Courage, or gas maybe. "I- I just want to know why you're such an ass."

"Have you ever know a Slytherin who wasn't?"

"Well, no, but-"

"There you go then." I smile. I fucking have to smile.

"You weren't last night. Not completely."

"We Slytherins are shifty like that. Devious and all." I take his plate just because he looks about to take a bite.

His face goes all funny. I can't make it out. I turn to the sink.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Being clever. Everyone's always being clever. Just stop it."

"Who's being clever?" I focus on the kettle.

"Maybe you are an ass then," he mumbles.

Breathe in, breathe out. Machinehead. The end. Maybe we should be a couple like Nick thinks. He's picking at my nerves enough.

"I just thought not for once."

"Thought not what, Nevvy? Thought that someone wasn't going to treat you like shite and leave you behind?" I look at him finally and he looks like vomiting. "I'm not stupid. Everyone sees how it goes with the Potter fan club. I almost think you ask for it now." I feel like vomiting.

"Shut up! Just shut it!"

"Is that all you've got?" I see myself saying it, and I think, "What a bastard," but it doesn't stop me. "Just shut it? Really."

"I'm not stupid either. No one wants you because no one cares about someone who's always off in their own world. The whole school was talking about you showing up for class in your underwear basically, and even your housemates were laughing at you. You're a joke. If you want it so bad, then why don't you just go be a muggle?"

"So why don't you kill me?" I smile like a real fucker this time.

"What? Some other muggle line? You talk like one of those televisions. No one cares."

I want to tell him that someone does, but I can't think who. Evie maybe. Hah, I wish. I shouldn't have laughed out loud, but I did.

"What is wrong with you?" I can see there's a flash in his eyes, behind the just making a point, of really wanting an answer.

"Soy un perdedor."

--

a/n: This chapter is dedicated to MB, who is too kind, and JKR, who did me proud.


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